Reason for Return: Not as Described. Return to Sender. Address Unknown.

I’m in the process of returning a computer to Amazon, which feels like a reasonable, adult thing to do.

Why am I on this constant quest to prove that I can master adulting?

I’d rather be a kid—naptime, recess, a Snoopy lunchbox with something I could trade for Oreos. Unfortunately, that’s not an option. It’s not even on the test.

The reality is I have to pretend I know how to return items before the due date, do my taxes before the government develops a personal interest in me, and make something out of this annoyingly demanding life.

I hate mundane tasks. I put them off. But this thing is worth more than a thousand dollars, and even I don’t play when it comes to that kind of money.

The new computer didn’t break. It didn’t disappoint me. There’s nothing wrong with it, as far as I know. I never even opened the box.

I have bad computer karma. The first MacBook Air I ever owned was so dysfunctional the motherboard had to be replaced three times. The motherboard.

I’m not a techno whiz, but apparently that’s the soul of the laptop.

It turns out my recent  computer that I bought used less than a year ago, played dead. It was an Academy Award–winning performance—convincing enough that I pulled out my wallet and ordered a replacement. A new one this time—I didn’t want any more BS.

So now the old computer has decided to come back to life, I have to deal with the boring, annoying process of returns. I have the label in my phone and scheduled the return like someone who understands how systems work. Like someone who has, at the very least, a passing relationship with competence.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I had a thought I probably should’ve ignored:

I wish everything worked like this. 

No questions asked. 

The thing is, I didn’t even open it.

This computer traveled across the country to get to me. It was scanned, sorted, loaded, unloaded, and delivered by people who will never know anything about me except that I exist at the end of a shipping label.

I wish I could always be that anonymous—the human at the end of the chain of deliveries. I literally don’t matter to this conglomerate called Amazon. They only know my name because I buy everything from toilet paper to toothpaste from them, because, come on, who wants to drive somewhere and deal with people? Look, I’m cheap and friendly but not motivated enough to actually use coupons and talk to strangers.

The computer arrived with the quiet confidence of something that believes it belongs here. Almost like the toilet paper. It’s kind of funny that the objects I use to wipe my ass and the machine I use to create my future arrive in similar boxes, possibly delivered by the same dude.

I have been known to leave Amazon boxes on my front porch for days at a time, even weeks—I’m embarrassed to say. Of course, I didn’t leave the computer out there; I’m lazy, but I’m not a maniac.

I looked at the box the fancy technology came in and thought—cats like boxes. I have random nightmares about cats for some reason. For a second, I wondered if there was one in there.

Image courtesy of Irma Calabrese via Scopio

I didn’t open it. There are a lot of crazy fantasies going on in this head of mine—I can’t be bothered to entertain all of them.

So now I’m taking it to Whole Foods to return it.

There is something deeply on-brand about returning an unopened computer in a place that sells organic strawberries and ethically sourced everything.

I walk in holding this pristine box like a person who makes good decisions.

I look like an ordinary woman returning something ordinary, perhaps some shoes or something. Little do they know what’s actually going on in my head. That I’m scanning the shelves, fully prepared to spend eight dollars on protein bagels that probably taste like meat.

Whole Foods got a pretty good deal with this Amazon return gig. Once you step into there, it’s like the Garden of Eden of groceries. You will buy something. If you’re human. If you are a cat, you’ll just want the Amazon boxes in the back.

“Is there anything wrong with the computer?” the man at the counter asks.

Um, no. There’s something wrong with me, though, if you want to take a look.

“No, I just… didn’t need it,” I say instead.

He does not care. Not even a little bit.

I have the sudden urge to explain everything—to tell him that I wish I needed a new computer, that I enjoy wasting money on elaborate, expensive things.

“I already had one. I just forgot.”

He scans the box.

No reaction. 

But I want a reaction. 

From him, from the whole crowd.

And while I’m standing here—can I return my generalized anxiety, my fear of failure and all my insecurities? Every. Single. One. I’m not sure what your return policy is. I’ve had them for far too long, but can you make an exception this time?

I want to tell the shoppers I get it. I understand why they’re here, spending absurd amounts of money in a place that makes everything feel slightly better just by existing.

I want to tell them that I wish I had the option to casually blow money on food that promises to make me skinny, healthy, or happy.

The truth is, food makes me happy, and I will probably pick up some of their chicken tikka masala. I hear it’s not even made by Indian people, but it still tastes authentic.

I want to ask why high-end, organic, locally grown everything feels reserved for the elite.

I mean—who am I kidding? I’m not exactly struggling. I wouldn’t call myself elite, but privileged is probably the word.

The fact that I’m returning a computer most people couldn’t afford—one I never even opened—is evidence of that.

There’s a specific kind of clarity that comes from not opening the box.

No attachment. No trying to justify it. No convincing yourself it might be OK to keep if you just give it a little more time.

No attachment.

All the great spiritual teachers tell us we are supposed to strive not to be attached, especially to material things. Even though I’m absolutely never going to get there, I love my stuff, but I appreciate the notion. 

Now, just a quiet, almost boring recognition:

This isn’t mine. 

Mine. 

That word is supposed to be the enemy in my religion, Sikhism. I’m not ‘religious’ per se, but I agree with the idea that we don’t really own things, people, or the earth. Ownership is a capitalistic notion, the idea that things belong to us and no one else. 

I handed the box over. They scanned it. I’ll get a confirmation email before I even make it to the parking lot.

Efficient. Clean. Resolved.

The computer will be refunded in 3–5 business days.

But who is going to return my self-worth to me?

I seem to have lost it somewhere in the shuffle of being an intelligent, educated woman with no job for the past two years.

Yes, I was taking care of my father. He was sick.

That should feel like enough.

It doesn’t.

I’m sure Amazon could step in and help. Maybe give me a minimum wage job where you have to pee in a cup because you’re so busy boxing things. Opening boxes, closing boxes.

They give you just enough money to live in a box.

I gave this little box, with this little computer, back because I don’t need it. I’m trying not to live in excess. I’m definitely never going to be a minimalist—I’m honestly more of a maximalist.

Amazon makes this part easy. You don’t need something—you send it back. No questions asked. No attachment.

But the rest of it…

There’s no label for that.

No return window.

No confirmation email waiting in your inbox.

Just you, standing there,

trying to figure out what’s yours—

and what never was.

nina

A couple of friends and I started a podcast called 2 Curries and a Ranch. Listen here: https://2curriesandaranch.riverside.com/  or wherever you get your podcasts.

Imagine two loud, dramatic, hilarious Indian women explaining to a white man what it's like to grow up and live in America. Join us for laughter, deep thoughts, and witty banter about life, love and culture. We tell it like it is, with honest, bold and funny stories, discussions and arguments. We explore boundaries and challenge norms. Join us for a good talk.

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